Or was all of this just nonsense, another aftereffect of her treatment, her mind spinning on overdrive?

A ball of nervous energy in her gut grew and grew until she couldn’t sit still anymore. She had to get up and do something, no matter how much she hurt or her body begged to get back under the sheet.

She forced herself to get out of bed. The day was a little overcast, threatening rain. The increased humidity only made her joints feel worse.

You’re going to hurt like hell whether you stay in bed or get up off your ass and do something.

Andrew’s housekeeping had gone a little sideways since they got to Maine. And why not? They were on vacation, after all. There were clothes in and around the hamper, socks scattered on the floor, dishes in the kitchen sink. And the bathroom could stand a little bleach cleaner.

If you can’t properly christen the house with Andrew, this will have to do.

Kate groaned whenever she bent down to pick up clothes or get the cleaner from the lower cabinets. Buttons followed her around the house. She tossed a load of laundry into the washer, which was kept in a closet near the kitchen. She’d at first thought the closet was a pantry, but it contained a small washer with a top-mounted dryer instead. Leaning against the sink, she washed the dishes slowly, meticulously. She had to take a break before tackling the bathroom, sitting down to catch her breath and dispel the dizziness in her brain.

Days like today, when she was sick to death of being sick, sexually frustrated – hell, frustrated in general – and harboring a low buzz of being freaked out, she pushed herself to restore a modicum of order around her. It wasn’t much, but it gave her some sense of control back. It always ended in tears and blinding pain and sometimes worse, but once she started, she couldn’t stop herself.

Andrew was going to be mad. They’d danced this dance so many times, she knew the lines of both sides of the argument by heart. He worried about her and got furious when she pushed herself to the brink. To him, tidying up the house was an absurdity. There was no sense in her doing it, knowing she’d flatten herself out. He’d yell at her out of anger and fear and exasperation.

She’d fight right back, angry that he couldn’t understand, no matter how many times she explained it to him. Sometimes she just needed to feel useful, needed. It wasn’t like sitting around was making her any better.